


Cause I'm a Vegetarian

by Theboys



Series: Master of Reality [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad Boy Dean, Bottom Sam, College Student Sam, Hunter Dean, M/M, Nerd Sam, Shy Sam Winchester, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam are unrelated, and Sam really does not want to complete an essay.<br/>College is supposed to consist of his glory years, after all.<br/>Emphasis on the glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause I'm a Vegetarian

**Author's Note:**

> I've got no idea where this all comes from, but wherever it originated, it should probably remain there.  
> Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

Brady said that his new boyfriend was coming over after class.

Sam knows that he has Intro to Anthropology (Sam’s under the impression that only pretentious freshman take that course, and he’s told Brady so in no uncertain terms) from 3 to 4:45, cause he’s an imbecile and decided that stacking all of his classes on Tuesday/Thursday was a brilliant idea.

Sam thinks he’s going to regret that when he’s the only one who can’t go out on Thirsty Thursday at the Rose and the Crown.

Sam’s unnecessarily pleased about that.

He enjoys being right.

He divided his classes up between the first four days of the week, and consequently provided himself with a long weekend. He uses all of Friday to study, and after about twelve to thirteen hours of that, interrupted only by the gym, he’s more than ready to drink his worries away.

Not that he has many, being as he’s always been expected to go to college, and his father owns a chain of department stores that Sam’s been forced to frequent all his life. He’s nineteen years old and these are his glory years.

He already sacrificed most of high school for this.

Sam wiggles the pen cap in his mouth, not particularly sure why he chose to take Bioethics every Monday and Wednesday, and why he he’s only put in minimal effort on his essay concerning euthanasia. He’s got his hair in a tight bun on top of his head, sue him, his friend Jess said it helped her think, and that’s good enough for him.

Sam’s hurtling through pivotal points in the history of euthanasia in Western culture. He’s aimlessly drifting through Karl Brandt’s organization of Action T4 in Germany during the Nazi Regime when he hears a loud thump outside of his dorm room.

He’s jerking himself upright, aware that he’s not really frightened, but he is ridiculously hyped about a potential distraction from his assignment. He creeps toward the door, number two pencil clutched tightly in his left hand.

That’s the secondary line of defense, he thinks excitedly. First, he’ll punch whoever is out there. The thought makes him a little giddy. He’s never had the opportunity to hit someone before. He drags his door open dramatically, and when he doesn’t see anything, he sticks his entire head out, eyes roaming down the corridor of Toyon Hall.

He’s scanning to the left, face squinty and jaw a bit loose, when he hears a quiet chuckle behind him. He squeaks loudly, dropping his pencil (curses!!) and whirls around to his right side, face tinged with scarlet.

It’s just a boy.

Sam recants that hurriedly, because though this is a just a boy, it isn’t _just a boy._

This boy, he looks older than Sam, so he should probably refer to him as a man, is a few inches below Sam’s own height, and to be perfectly truthful, who isn’t? He’s got dark blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across his face, visible even under the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting.

His eyes are the color of the seaweed Sam used to collect at his grandmother’s beach house in Calabasas. He’s leaned right up against the wall next to Sam’s door, smelling like the outdoors and some woodsy scent Sam is unreasonably elated by.

He’s got a leather jacket on, and Sam can’t tell if came brown or it’s been browned with age and use. He’s 90% sure the guy’s wearing combat boots, but they’re so scuffed and dingy he can’t rightly examine them.

Seaweed speaks up then, voice asperous and silky in unison.

“Gonna look all day, kid?” Sam straightens up immediately, feeling like the biggest kind of idiot.

“Oh!” He backs up a few steps, hits the edge of his bed. “Come in, sorry about that.”

Seaweed’s eyes widen a fraction, and then he breaks out in a dazzling smile, and Sam does not reach behind him and brace himself on his poor excuse for a bed frame. Seaweed’s eyes crinkle with mirth and he kicks the door shut with one booted foot.

“Little small for a boy your size, eh, kid?” Seaweed glances around the room disparagingly. Sam’s having an asthma attack, nevermind that he’s never had a bit of trouble breathing a day in his life, but there’s a first time for everything and his is beginning RIGHT NOW

“It’s Sam. My name. That is.”

Oh-fucking-kay, Yoda, why don’t you just invite him to Dagobah, really show him the sights?

Seaweed’s grinning, hands shoved into jacket pockets as he gracefully maneuvers around Sam and drops down onto his comforter, smirking widely at the Legion graphics it’s sporting. Sam feels painfully childlike right now. So he likes his comics. He likes football, too, and he keeps his excessive geeking for those who can truly appreciate it.

Seaweed can’t, apparently.

“Mine’s Dean.”

Sam cuts his eyes over to Seaweed’s, lips pursed. “That’s a better name than what I’ve been calling you in my head,” he mutters, half to himself. Dean stretches out, spine popping erratically, and Sam’s suddenly chilled.

“What’s that?” Sam hurries to his desk, in no mood to answer. “Nothing.” He looks up, his paper blending into indecipherable scribbles before his very eyes.

“Brady won’t be back for another hour, so you can wait if you want, but it’ll probably be pretty boring.” He says this last meaningfully, unsure as to why Dean’s perched on his bed like he’s found his new home and he’s about to start nesting.

Dean doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, it’s carefree and bright. “Ah, I think I’m good right here, Sammy.” His voice is jovial when he continues. “Don’t let me keep you from whatever fun thing you were doin’ before I got here.”

Sam huffs out a deep breath and resolves to ignore Seaweed’s very existence. He’s got a roaring five words typed when he realizes he’s been mentally humming along with whatever tune Dean’s lowly whistling under his breath.

Sam glances up, rodent like attention span rearing its ugly head. “Is that Black Sabbath?” Dean’s sitting up so quickly that Sam lurches back, never witnessed speed like that in all his life. But Dean’s smile is damn near splitting his mouth open, and Sam’s got to look down quickly, because it makes him want to grin back in return.

“By Black Sabbath,” he whistles again, continuing the song. There aren’t a lot of words to the song, it mostly consists of Ozzy Osbourne wailing mournfully for God to help him, but it’s Sam’s favorite by them, and he can sense Dean’s pleasure that he recognizes the song.

Dean’s head is cocked inquisitively in his direction. “Doesn’t seem like you’d be the type to like the classics, Sammy.” Sam wrinkles his nose. “I like good music.” Dean seems to accept this as the Word of God, and rises, walks over to stand right in front of Sam.

“Guess that about settles it, then.” Sam wants to say that he acted flawlessly, for this next part, was a paragon of grace and testosterone, but the reality of the matter, is that when Dean tips his head back and presses firm, soft lips against his, he moans like the most basic of bitches.

He can feel Dean laugh into his mouth, taste Dean’s teeth against exposed skin. “I like that,” Dean comments, still attached by the lips. “Wanna hear that again.” Dean tugs Sam up, backing him against the white-washed walls beside his desk. Sam feels his back hit the wall in an out of body experience, and Dean reaches up to drag his jaw back towards his own face.

Dean’s licking his way in between Sam’s mouth, spit slick and smooth, and he wedges one hard thigh between Sam’s locked knees, knocks them apart like dominoes and drives himself home. Sam’s mewling with desperation, and in his first brave move of the day, he shoves Dean’s jacket off of his arms, letting it pool on the floor in an almost soundless thump.

He’s rutting rapidly against Dean’s leg, little unh unh unh sounds punched out, gasping for any form of air. He can hear Dean speaking, having migrated his sinful mouth to Sam’s neck. “Fuck, I love those sounds. Keep goin. Tell me how much you like it, baby.” Sam startles and cries out when Dean bites down savagely on his pulse point, and Sam sinks a few inches until his crotch is resting almost entirely on Dean’s knee, and their faces are level.

Dean’s eyes are onyx, green obscured entirely, and he releases Sam’s face for the first time to scrabble at the button on Sam’s jeans. It’s the first non-graceful movement Sam’s seen from him, and Dean’s panting, face open with concentration and salaciousness, one hand gripped tightly to Sam’s hips. Dean jerks the pants down triumphantly, boxers and all, and groans loudly, shameless.

Sam’s erection jerks free, too stiff to bob much in the cool air, flushed crimson, head glistening just a little, firm and unyielding in Dean’s hand. “Baby, you been hiding all this from me?” Sam’s nodding like an idiot, head thunking against the plaster. “M’Sorry, sorry sorry, Dean,” he gasps, hazel eyes unfocused and strained, rolling back in his head entirely and Dean drops heavily to his knees.

Dean glances up, feral grin, lips split in an imitation of a smile. “I’ma choke this down.” Sam’s fingernails make an unpleasant shriek as they dig against the wall. “Then, I’m gonna bend you over the sheets you brought from your childhood and fuck you stupid.” Sam wants to say something, provide Dean with a witty rejoinder, but all he knows how to do is grit his teeth and press his knuckles to his mouth as Dean sinks down, no trouble whatsoever, and Sam’s not sure if that’s troubling, or just plain impressive.

He rather sides with impressive.

Dean’s lips are immoral, lingering at the base of Sam’s dick, all spit and pre-cum layered around them. He snakes one hand near Sam’s taint, and then further back, nudging purposefully at Sam’s hole. Sam has a wild, spastic thought. He’s never put anything up there, too chickenshit to try, but he presses down eagerly, wanting Dean’s whole hand inside.

“Fucking put your fist in there,” _would_ be the one line Sam decides to use, and he groans in embarrassment for the first time since this all began.

Dean’s popping off his mouth so fast a thin string of saliva tethers Dean’s lips to his dick even after they’ve disconnected.

“Oh hell no. You don’t get to talk like that when you’re not on your back.” Shoves Sam down with all the gentility of a gun, straddles his hips and presses his face down into Sam’s neck. “Got any lube, baby boy?” Sam’s frantic, curses every Norse God he can think of, and is beginning in on the Aztec ones when he replies.

“Uh-uh,” he says, intelligently. Dean’s growling, standing, and when the hell did he lose his pants? Sam props himself up on elbows and pulls his hair out of his bun (he cannot lose his virginity in a bun, it’s sick and wrong) and admires Dean’s slight bow legs, the paler flesh of his upper thigh, pretty blonde hair that surrounds his purple-red dick. The dick, which Sam registers, that is about an inch away from his navel.

Sam wiggles his hips in frightened anticipation. He’s probably destined for death once Dean pushes that animal inside of him, but he wasn’t overly fond of college anyway, and that euthanasia paper was going to do the job for Dean, regardless--

Sam snaps back to himself, eyes flicking up when Dean waves a hand in his face. “Lotion, Sammy? Where’s it at?” Dean’s wild-eyed, one hand clutching the base of his dick as he ransacks Sam’s room entirely, papers strewn everywhere. Sam points to his third from the bottom drawer. “In there.”

Dean rips the entire drawer from the dresser and holds up the bottle of Jergens like he personally won the NBA finals. He kneels between Sam’s legs again “hold your legs, baby” pushes Sam’s knees near his ears and lets out a shuddering breath. Sam bites his lip in order to hold back a grin at the sound.

Dean smears his palm with lotion and gently works a slick finger inside, and Sam tenses for a bright second, unfamiliar with the intrusion. “Won’t hurt, Sammy, just chill out for a sec.” Sam listens, nodding to himself, and feels the foreign feeling begin to recede. Dean leans down and bites softly at the fleshy part of Sam’s thigh, and Sam lets out a little wail.

“Y’know I love that, Sammy. Look so damn helpless for me.” Sam’s flushed and he’s so distracted by Dean’s purrs of praise that he misses the feeling of Dean’s second finger joining the first. Sam’s back is in the air suddenly and he’s briefly suspended in the air when he arches. “Jesus Mary, Mother of God.” Dean’s eyes are wide and absent of all teasing. “You’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Dean begins to scissor, slowly, the tip of his finger on his free hand gently encircling the slick head of Sam’s dick.

Dean shoves both fingers in to the point where they attach to his palm, and abruptly, Sam hears the sound of Brady dropping his backpack to the floor just outside of their door, which he always does in preparation of rummaging around in it for his room keys. Sam glances at Dean, wild-eyed, everything coming back into sharp focus.

Dean.

Brady’s _boyfriend_.

Sam’s backing up, cat like, Dean’s fingers slipping from him as his rim clings pathetically, and he gazes up at the man, eyes shining with sudden, random, tears.

“You’re dating Brady! And I’m a fucking asshole--”

Dean’s still grinning, muscles in his forearms becoming more pronounced as he leans down over Sam, pressing his mouth just over Sam’s right ear.

“Oh, baby. I ain’t nobody's boyfriend.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments are appreciated (and consequently begged for)


End file.
